A Lesson in Trust
by AnEloquentFacade
Summary: "We need to be able to trust each other implicitly. We should do something to help bond us more cohesively as a single unit. It will make things go more smoothly in the future." Joan frowned as Sherlock spoke. It appeared as though her quiet rest was over already. "What did you have in mind?" She asked cautiously. "A trust exercise."
1. Chapter 1

**A Lesson in Trust **

It was very much just another typical morning in the Brownstone. Joan was reading through the newspaper sipping on her wheatgrass smoothie for breakfast while Sherlock ate cereal by the spoonfuls absorbed in his own thoughts.

Joan had officially been Sherlock's associate for a few months and, at the moment, she was enjoying the morning's quiet rest. They had just finished a case and she knew that it wouldn't be long before Sherlock became bored, or New York produced another crime that required the brilliant Sherlock Holmes' assistance.

"We need to be able to trust each other implicitly. We should do something to help bond us more cohesively as a single unit. It will make things go more smoothly in the future."

Joan frowned as Sherlock spoke. It appeared as though her quiet rest was over already.

She was also a bit worried: what could Sherlock possibly want to do to help them _bond_? Jump out of a plane and pull each other's parachute release? Based on some of the experiments she had witnessed him conduct she was fairly certain that whatever he was thinking she would not be eager to do.

"What did you have in mind?" She asked cautiously putting down the paper she had been reading. His words, much like most aspects of Sherlock's life, were carefully constructed to express his exact meanings. As a keen observer of details he was always particular about his own actions and words.

"A trust exercise." He said simply, casually taking another spoonful of cereal into his mouth as if they were discussing a common trifle, like the weather.

"What _kind_ of trust exercise?" Joan probed still guarded. She had given him her full attention trying to find the hidden truths in his words, trying to deduce where this conversation was headed by the details he provided. The only problem was that unlike most people, Sherlock knew exactly how to conceal his thoughts until he wished for them to be known.

Joan knew that Sherlock enjoyed concealing himself; he treated many of their casual conversations as games—when they weren't on a case. If they were on a case he was often frustrated that he sometimes could not make himself more plain. As Joan's mentor he tried to let her come to some conclusions without his help, but he was easily frustrated when it took her or Captain Gregson too long to figure something out.

Sherlock put his spoon down and spoke very clearly.

"I would very much like to give you a tattoo." He said vigilantly watching her reaction.

Joan nearly spit her mouthful of smoothie across the table at him, but she managed to sputter it down. Her eyes went wide and then were conscientiously relaxed to a more a nonchalant stance. Her nostrils flared and then relaxed. Her breathing momentarily paused before resuming a slow and steady flow and she casually tapped her fingers around the length of her half-full glass.

Sherlock knew—just as well as Joan—that she was much easier to read than he was. She had been practicing to conceal her physical responses to things, mostly because she was annoyed that Sherlock was able to read her like an open book, and partially because she was hoping to annoy him by seeming impassive.

Although her concealments happened within seconds of being told of Sherlock's intentions, he was too observant not to have taken in all her physical responses before turning them into emotional inferences of her reaction. His eyes locked on hers as he spoke.

"Watson, do you trust me?"

She knew by now that he didn't ask throwaway questions. Everything was important. This wasn't a trick or a ridiculous training exercise. It was a serious question, because from everything that Sherlock had deduced and filed away in his mind about Joan and their interactions together, he absolutely wasn't sure.

"With my life." She swallowed hard, still holding his gaze.

Although she didn't trust that he would always remember to put the milk back in the fridge, or that he wouldn't surprise her with some kind of attack training, or that he would remember to put the toilet seat down in the bathroom that they shared, she trusted him when it counted—for all of the things that mattered. And her life certainly mattered. Being a consulting detective came with no small amount of danger, and Sherlock had proven on several occasions that he would do what he could to help protect Joan, to keep her alive. Her problem wasn't in trusting Sherlock.

"I don't trust myself." She said quietly regulating her voice so as not to show how vulnerable that admission made her feel.

"Please explain."

Sherlock was patient. His stare was calculating. He was always observing, making notes, deducing. He had long suspected that Watson, the surgeon turned sober companion turned associate detective, lacked the appropriate confidence in herself she deserved. He could see true sparks of genius in her, but one thing that was holding her back from being truly great was her doubt.

"Tattoos are meant to be permanent. I don't trust myself to choose something that I will want for my whole life. I wouldn't know what to get or where to get it. During med school so many of my colleagues got tattoos as a celebration for finishing their residencies. They got stethoscopes, the caduceus, and things like that. I just… couldn't."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Well of course you couldn't. Those prats were merely branding themselves by their profession which would be just as obvious by the uniforms that they wear. They were broadcasting to the world one goal met that they determined the rest of their lives around. Tattoos are not meant to be about showing the obvious or the external; they're about making what is inherently internal visible on the external."

It was the most profound explanation of tattoos Joan had ever heard. She listened and watched completely captivated by him. It was in these moments that she felt herself falling for him. He spoke with such passion and intensity that it was impossible for her to tear her eyes away from him.

"Tattoos take something personal, intimate and make it public." He continued. "There are subtleties, of course—hidden symbols or meanings—but essentially, it's about sharing who you _really_ are and hoping that there is someone out there who can properly deduce the meaning of the ink on your skin."

Joan was silently staring at Sherlock. With this new insight she wanted to examine _his_ tattoos. She had never really paid much attention to them with so many other stimuli distracting her, but now she felt the challenge of deduction calling for her to study his skin and, as Sherlock said, see who _he _really was. Unfortunately, the outfit he was wearing covered the marked areas of his skin that she wished to see.

"If you'll agree, I have an idea for your tattoo and where to put it."

Joan was still watching him silently. She could see that he was excited. His eyes were twinkling and his whole body was nearly bouncing with energy.

"What is it?" She asked skeptically. Tattoos seemed so final, permanent. The reason she hadn't gotten one before now was that Joan was rather fickle in her interests, and nothing stood out that she felt she could be happy with forever stamped into her skin.

"A moment ago you said you trust me with your life. Do you trust me with any other aspects of your existence, or just in helping to keep it going?" He replied shrewdly.

He was erratic. He was manipulative. He was frustrating as hell. But he was also brilliant, like a savant for details and the connections that could be made from them. Joan took a deep breath taking a moment to make sure she meant it and then said, "I may not always like what you do or how you do it, but I can't think of a reason not to trust you, completely."

"Wonderful! This way, Watson!" He grinned and leapt up from the table and out of the kitchen in a flash.

Joan sighed as she looked at Sherlock's empty space at the table, his cereal half eaten, and the carton of milk still out on the counter behind where he was just seconds ago.

. . .

By the time Joan found him he was already setting up.

The long table that usually held all of his papers and clues from whatever case they were working on was cleared and pulled toward the center of the room. He had a smaller end table adjacent to it that had some napkins, latex gloves, gauze, tiny plastic cups, what Joan assumed to be the bottles of ink, and the … tattoo gun. Everything had been put together so quickly that she had a feeling he had been planning this for a while and anticipated that she would say yes. And she was yet again annoyed by how well Sherlock was able to read her and how she let him manipulate her.

She had seen him tattooing his own arm a few months ago in this same room, and although after some thought it didn't seem all that unusual, it still didn't seem quite right. Joan had witnessed firsthand several patients when she worked at the hospital who had contracted infections from getting tattooed at the park, in an alley, in their home…

Sherlock threw a sheet over the long table and gave Joan a brief smile as he turned to pull a chair close by to sit in while he worked. She stood in the doorway unsure while he continued moving things here and there.

"Come Watson, lie down." He gestured toward the table taking a seat in the chair next to it.

He frowned slightly when she didn't move.

"Trust, Watson. This is about trust. Do you trust that I know how to use this?" He asked holding up the tattoo gun.

She had seen him in action with it. She took a small step forward.

"Do you trust that I have sanitized the area to prevent infections?"

He didn't get an infection after his self-administered tattoo and although he was a bit of a slob in the kitchen he was meticulous with his hygiene routine. Another step forward.

"Do you trust my attention to detail?"

No one could deny his attention to detail. She took two more steps toward him.

"Do you trust that I will not let harm befall you?"

She sighed in defeat and closed the distance between them, the promise of his words caressing her in way that made her angry at herself. She climbed up and lay on the table staring at the ceiling.

"Now flip over." Sherlock commanded and she glared at him to which he gave an impish grin.

She grumbled and turned over dropping her forehead to the table dramatically. She felt something tug on her cardigan and she immediately turned resting on her left elbow so she could glare at Sherlock.

"What are you doing?!"

"Removing your cardigan. Unless you'd prefer the tattoo on the back of your neck, all of your skin is covered up." He replied simply. His eyes still twinkling.

She scowled and sat up, throwing off her cardigan and tossing it to the floor to show her annoyance. Of all the times she imagined Sherlock trying to take off her clothes it never once was because he was going to give her a tattoo.

Joan was frustrated with herself. She had feelings for Sherlock that constantly bordered on romantic. She reveled in his touches and gentlemanlike behaviors—however brief they may be—like when he would help her into or out of her coat, when he would hold open doors for her, when he would lend her his gloves because she had forgotten her own…

He watched in amusement as she lay back down.

She shivered once when his fingers lightly collected her hair and moved it over her left shoulder and again when he slipped the thin straps of her camisole and bra off her right shoulder. The upper right half of her back was bare. As his fingers danced across her skin she couldn't help the shivers of pleasure that her body produced. Then she gasped slightly when he rubbed an alcohol pad across her back to sterilize the area.

Her hands were clammy. She was still nervous.

"I'm going to draw a sketch with a pen first, to guide me, before I use the gun." He paused before adding, "People experience different levels of… discomfort. Should you wish me to stop—"

"I think I can handle it." She interrupted hoping that he would see her annoyance and not notice the way her body reacted every time he touched her.

Sherlock rarely explained things step by step, usually because he was able to skip to step 8 while everyone else was still working on step 2, but Joan's appreciation for him walking her through the process was overshadowed by her annoyance for being manipulated into getting a tattoo. The relationship that Joan and Sherlock had was nearly entirely built upon their trust of one another. Therefore, she couldn't say that she trusted him but then refuse him the tattoo. He had made an equivocation between the two, rationalized that with one the other should just as easily take place. Joan was curious and impatient; she wanted to be on step 8 with Sherlock, not stuck in the ignorance of step 2.

"Yes, I know that you can." Sherlock replied patting her arm in an almost admiring manner. In their time together investigating Joan had had her fair share of _discomfort_, but always handled it well. Sherlock, though he never said it in exact words, was quite proud of her, impressed by her skill and determination.

Joan lay perfectly still, her body tense, her breaths were shallow. She was still so unsure of herself. It was a mild adrenaline rush of the unknown, like riding a rollercoaster in complete darkness.

Sherlock leaned forward to whisper words of comfort in her ear, "trust me, Watson." His voice seemed deeper, somehow more reassuring. Joan could feel his warm breath on her neck. She took deeper breaths but her body was still tense. His voice continued in a steady stream of reassurance.

"The key to any case is in the details, the subtleties that set it apart from all the other cases. This case—the case of Joan Watson—has been ongoing. People, as a group, are quite easy to predict. They can be viewed and measured in scientific terms. An individual person, however, is quite complex, varied, and unpredictable. In the six months that we have lived and worked together I have observed a nearly incalculable amount of details specifically regarding you. I know that this case is far from being closed because an individual constantly changes, but I feel that I've collected an adequate amount of data to create a tattoo that you will be able to reflect upon with satisfaction."

He could feel her body slowly relaxing as he spoke, giving power over to him through the trust of his skills in observation and reasoning. Giving _herself_ to him. He grinned briefly over his victory.

Then, wanting to test her deduction skills, and also to tease her a little, he asked, "Are you familiar with what the Chinese refer to as mǔ dān?"

He smirked in satisfaction as she tensed up again, groaning, "please tell me that you are not planning to mark me with some Chinese Hanzi. I think it's pretty obvious that I'm Chinese."

"No Watson, words, even when they are in another language, are far too obvious a symbol for our purpose. I'm surprised, however, that mǔ dān doesn't at least sound vaguely familiar to you."

"Should it?" She asked hearing the slight reprimand in his voice.

"Yes, it should. It is in one of the books I gave you last week to extend your knowledge base and help you with deduction."

He had given her seven books last week. They were about various ecosystems, plant life, environmental anomalies, historical uses of particular plants, and one was a cookbook—which Joan scoffed at and immediately put at the bottom of the pile. She was many things for Sherlock: roommate, associate, conscience, but personal chef? No.

"Does mǔ dān have something to do with what you will be tattooing on me?" She could feel the pen, and Sherlock's gloved hand, feather light, caressing her shoulder as he sketched his idea. She could tell by his touch that the tattoo would take up roughly 4 square inches on her right shoulder blade and wondered what she would find there when it was completed.

. . .

"In an hour or two we'll remove the bandage, clean it, and you'll be able to see it then." Sherlock said delicately rubbing some cream on her irritated skin before taping gauze over it.

"An hour or two! Why can't I see it now?" She sat up on the table trying to look over her shoulder even though the tattoo was covered.

She had already sat through an hour of waiting while he pierced her skin over and over and over again with ink and she was no closer to figuring out what he had chosen. The pain was tolerable, but even so she distracted her mind by trying to picture what he was creating.

"It's still inflamed. In an hour you will have a slightly more aesthetically pleasing image to look at." Sherlock reasoned taking off the latex gloves and tossing them in the trash bin. He always seemed to be bouncing with energy, but Joan noticed that he seemed more reserved, like he was waiting for something he didn't already know the answer to.

"What am I supposed to do until then, count the seconds?"

"You could catch up on your reading. Obviously you haven't finished." Sherlock replied tending to the other items he had used to put the room back in order.

"What if I just go upstairs and rip this gauze off to look at it?" She asked a bit contemptuously thinking she had bested him.

"The whole point of this exercise is for us to trust each other. You have trusted me to give you a tattoo, and I trust that you will not look at it until I am there with you." He was staring at her with a hint of a smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his eye.

"Damn." Joan thought as she huffed quietly and went up to her room.

. . .

She glared at the mirror over her dresser when she entered her room; it was so tempting to just take a peek, but she knew that Sherlock would somehow know if she had looked at it without him. Instead she sank to the floor near a stack of books by her bed and began searching. She had no intention of actually reading one of the books; she was on the hunt for one thing: mǔ dān.

She assumed that her tattoo must have something to do with botany or nature since that was what all of the books were centered around, but there were too many possibilities. She flipped to the index of the book on top of the pile and searched for mǔ dān. Twenty minutes later she had found nothing even remotely useful in the books about ecosystems or environmental anomalies.

She continued looking and finally found mǔ dān in the index for the book about historical uses for plants. There were roughly 8 sets of pages that had mention of it.

The first entry she found was entirely in Chinese. Although she was proud of her culture, Joan's knowledge of the Chinese language was limited to colloquial spoken phrases.

The second entry she looked up was a bit more helpful:

_Over 262 compounds have been obtained so far from the plants of Paeoniaceae. These include monoterpenoid glucosides, flavonoids, tannins, stilbenoids, triterpenoids and steroids, paeonols, and phenols.  
Biological activities include antioxidant, antitumor, antipathogenic, immune-system-modulation activities, cardiovascular-system-protective activities and central-nervous-system activities. _

_The herb known as Paeonia, in particular the root of P. lactiflora (Bai Shao, Radix Paeoniae Lactiflorae), has been used frequently in traditional medicines of Korea, China and Japan. Research suggests that constituents in P. lactiflora – paeoniflorin and paeonol – can modulate Immunoglobulin-E-induced scratching behaviors and mast cell degranulation.*_

She was able to make sense of the entry from her medical background, but the only useful information she obtained regarding her tattoo was that it was a plant used as traditional medicine.

The next entry she found told her everything she needed to know:

_牡丹 __/ Mǔdān, or peony in English, is the 'queen of flowers' and the flower of spring. It is a flower best known for its medicinal uses as well as its beauty. _

_In Japan, the peony or "botan" was used as foreign medicine, specifically to help treat convulsions. While the peony takes several years to re-establish itself when moved, it blooms annually for decades once it has done so. The peony became a masculine motif, associated with a devil-may-care attitude and disregard for consequence._

_In art and literature the peony blossom symbolizes fame and wealth. Red peonies are the most desired and valued, while white peonies symbolize young, witty, beautiful girls.*_

At the bottom of this entry there was something scratched in with a pencil. Joan recognized the scrawl and immediately read what was written:

_"I am glad to have your trust, Watson, you have mine unequivocally." _

That brilliant, manipulative man had done it again. She let a smile cross her face, tempered with a tiny tug of annoyance. He had given her these books last week, which meant that he had been planning on broaching the subject of trust and tattoos at least since then. And he had, as usual, correctly interpreted what Joan would do.

Sherlock knew her better than anyone else had. He seemed to know her better than even her past lovers had. She in turn, began to crave his attention and his approval so much that it created a steady ache in her chest. This "trust exercise" only further proved to Joan how completely wrapped around his finger she had become. In a matter of minutes he had convinced her to get a tattoo and she had been okay with it. True, it had taken a little coaxing on his part, but she could think of very few things that Sherlock could ask of her that she would resolutely say no to.

She sighed and ran her fingers over the words he wrote to her. She only hoped that her lingering glances and physical responses weren't as obvious to Sherlock as they had been to her.

. . .

There was a soft knock and Joan looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to her room. She flushed slightly and tucked her hair behind her ear for something to do. She briefly wondered how long he had been standing there.

"Are you ready to see a piece of the _real_ you?" He asked, his lips twitching slightly.

Joan studied his posture and movements, doing her best to deduce him much like he always deduced her. His shoulders weren't squared how they usually were when he was being insufferably confident, and one of his hands was fisted into his trouser pocket. He was anxious, unsure. He was hanging back, deciding what to do based on Joan and her reactions.

In a way the reveal of the tattoo was also a reveal of Sherlock himself. Had he properly deduced Watson? Would she approve of his choice? It was obvious that she had found the entry: the books were scattered across the floor except for the one in her lap which her hand was still pointing to where he had written a few words—her prize for following the clues and finding the answer. And she didn't seem upset at that knowledge.

She slowly set the book open and face-down on her bed before standing up. She positioned herself so that she could clearly see the gauze covering her skin in the mirror; then she looked at Sherlock for him to remove the covering.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and closed the distance between them. She could feel his rough fingers trace the outline of the tape and then slid down her arm to her hand.

"It needs to be rinsed first." He said quietly keeping her hand in his while he led her out of her room and into the bathroom that they shared.

Joan felt a light squeeze on her hand before Sherlock released it.

She was standing perpendicular to the mirror above the sink and Sherlock was standing directly behind her. His fingers traced around the gauze again, but this time he peeled up the tape and removed it.

He ran the hot water tap and moistened a washcloth under the stream before turning it off again. Then he, very gingerly, wiped at the transformed skin that Joan still couldn't see. His free hand held her shoulder as she fidgeted trying to catch a glimpse.

"Just a little more patience." Sherlock said setting the washcloth down and applying some more cream to her skin.

Joan shivered, once again reacting to the sensations his touch gave her.

The hand that was on her shoulder turned her frame slightly so that she could now look at the mirror and see what was etched into her skin. She knew that it was mǔ dān, a peony blossom, but she only now was able to see what it looked like.

"It's beautiful." She said moving slightly this way and that so that she could better see the pink and white petals that now decorated her shoulder blade.

"Tattoos are meant to show what is internal on the external, Watson."

"Are you saying that my insides look like flowers, because I was a surgeon, Sherlock, I know what insides look like." She replied teasingly, turning around to face him.

"Beauty is entwined in every aspect of you." There was no teasing tone to his voice. His eyes bore into her and she felt herself flush again. Her stomach tightened uncomfortably and she looked down to avoid the intensity of his gaze. She had been foolishly hoping for something like this to happen between her and Sherlock, but he often said things in ways that others wouldn't. Perhaps she was misunderstanding his meaning.

She felt his hand gently lift her chin upwards, encouraging her to look at him again.

"Stop me if my deductions have been wrong." Sherlock whispered, slowly bringing his face in closer to Joan's. She could see that she had caused this sudden vulnerability in him. He was not completely sure that she wouldn't reject him. She took one last look in his eyes before closing her own.

It only took a moment for his warm lips to press softly against hers. She could feel his energy bouncing even in his lips. Her hand brushed against the stubble from his chin as she reached up to bring him in closer.

She had wrapped her other arm around his back as his arms encircled her. When she deepened the kiss Sherlock's arms pulled her flush against him and she could feel the heat of his skin through his clothes.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt and his hand rubbed across the exposed skin on her back.

She winced and he immediately stopped.

He tried to pull back but she kept her arm tight on his back. In the fervor of his exploration Sherlock's rough fingers had brushed against the still tender flesh of where Joan's tattoo was. She kissed his jaw and his neck while he realized what had happened.

He hugged her closer—being more careful about the placement of his hands—and nuzzled against her smooth black hair breathing deeply.

Joan wasn't sure how this would affect their already complicated relationship, but for the moment she was content to simply be trapped in his arms breathing in his scent, able to reach up and kiss him whenever the urge to taste his lips became too great to resist.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

***AN**: For anyone curious, I got most of my information about Peonies from wiki/Paeonia_(plant)#Symbolism_and_uses and a little bit from


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I received such a great response and some requests for more, so here's a shamelessly fluff-filled Joanlock extension of what happened next :)

* * *

**A Lesson in Trust – Continued **

Joan's urge to kiss Sherlock had been constant. It hadn't even been a full minute before she maneuvered her head out from under Sherlock's chin and reached up to find his lips. His kisses were passionate, yet gentle—a pleasant surprise to Joan. One of his hands lightly massaged her neck while the other was pressed firmly at the small of her back, keeping her body close to his own.

Joan was completely driven by her desire. She had been watching Sherlock, too, for months but now she wanted to _see_ him, to _feel_ his bare skin in this moment; in real life instead of some fantasy she had concocted while killing time on the subway or lying in her bed. Her hands slid up under Sherlock's shirt and she pushed it up his chest to his shoulders. He raised his arms and pulled the shirt the rest of the way off when Joan could no longer reach—she hadn't put on her usual heeled boots which gave her an extra four or five inches in height.

With the obstruction of the shirt removed Joan's hand hungrily roamed about Sherlock's body, trying to take in every dimple of his muscles, every bump from a scar, every hair on his chest.

Sherlock, however, was content to relish in her touch as her soft and skilled hands conducted their frantic research. He was intrigued to find that in this moment their typical character traits seemed to have switched. Joan, who was usually calm and reserved, was frenzied and impatient—much like Sherlock tended to be during a case. Now, however, his movements were more leisurely; he was taking his time in the exploration of this new frontier. His steady pace also allowed him to more easily avoid her shoulder where her new tattoo was still tender.

His hands slowly roamed about her, conducting his own research of her body, _every_ detail of it. He was especially interested in how her chest would arch upward when he kissed the soft flesh just below her earlobe, and the way that her hands would tighten when his teeth grazed the apex of her neck and shoulder. Of all the cases he had worked on, the case of Joan Watson was quickly becoming his favorite.

His body tensed ever so slightly when he felt Joan's hands grab his belt buckle. He slowly let his hands wrap around her wrists to stop her.

She looked up at him with fire in her eyes and confusion on her face. "Is something wrong?"

He slid his hands to encircle each of hers. "Absolutely nothing is _wrong,_ but I'm not sure that this is the location in which you would wish to continue." His thumbs rubbing along her knuckles as he spoke. She smiled sheepishly at him as she realized they were still in the bathroom.

Still holding her hands he led them out into the hall and then after a brief hesitation he pulled her toward his bedroom.

Joan **rarely** entered his room. He usually slept very little, or woke up at ungodly hours to barge into _her_ room with some piece of information he had just uncovered. In the early months of their living together she had contemplated locking her door at night, but in all honesty, she liked the excitement of knowing that he could come barging in at any moment.

She noticed the piles of clothes haphazardly strewn about the floor, the jumbled desk space where all manner of objects rested, but that was it. His room was more cluttered than dirty. His bed looked as though it hadn't been slept in for days—which given that they had only just finished a case, Joan was not surprised.

Sherlock's energy levels skyrocketed through the roof when he was trying to solve a case. She would often come down for breakfast to find that he had taken only a brief rest on the sofa or on the floor or that he hadn't slept at all.

When Sherlock stopped just inside the threshold of his room Joan took the lead and pulled him toward the bed. She kissed him again before sitting on the edge of his bed, her hands reaching for his belt once more.

"Watson." He said clearing his throat and interrupting her yet again. She looked at him annoyed beginning to doubt herself, believing that maybe he didn't feel quite the same way that she did.

He knelt down in front of where she was perched on his bed. "Joan." He amended, reaching for her hand and he held it firmly in one of his while his other hand rested on her thigh. "I'm not in any rush. I'd like to, if you approve, take my time." He gave Joan a gentle smile which made fire pulse through her body.

"It's going to be difficult for me to control myself." She groaned out squeezing his hand. His hand released her and slid up to cradle her neck. He pulled their faces so close together that Joan could feel his lips move as he whispered, "I trust you."

. . .

Joan wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep, but of what she could see of the sky outside it was now just before dusk. She could feel the heat of Sherlock's bare skin behind her, his steady breath tickling the back of her neck. His arms _were_ wrapped around her middle, but after he drifted to sleep his muscles relaxed, leaving his arms idly lying on either side of her. He had his right arm draped over her waist, and his left arm wedged between the other side of her waist and the bed.

She ran her fingers over the skin of his left arm and shifted a little so that her body was no longer covering the first letters of the tattoo she found there. Stamina. It had been written in an Old English font type; the black letters taking up nearly the entire length of his forearm from elbow to wrist.

Joan smiled as she realized it was her chance to deduce the _real_ Sherlock from _his_ choices in tattoos. She smirked as she thought of one reason why stamina was an appropriate symbol for him, but she moved on believing that even Sherlock wasn't arrogant enough to have chosen the word for _that_ reason. She picked through her brain pulling every reference she had to stamina. From her college biology course she remembered that stamina was the plural for stamen, which was the 'male' reproductive part of a flower. But again, this wouldn't be the reason behind his tattoo.

She _knew_ that stamina meant endurance, but what else? It was about having strength, not necessarily just physical strength though. It was about perseverance. It was about overcoming hardship. "Ah-ha!" She thought as her fingers traced over the "S" of his tattoo. This letter was the closest to the crook of his elbow, where Joan could see a few circular scars, remnants of his recent addiction.

Satisfied with her reasoning she turned her attention to his right arm. Here she found three more tattoos: there was a smattering of yellow and red flames on his wrist, a black rat on his forearm, and "Kingston 1972" on his inner bicep.

Joan knew that Sherlock was born in 1972 on November 15. That information had been in the file his father had given her when she accepted the job as Sherlock's sober companion. She easily remembered this now because she spotted a small sign of the Scorpio tattooed on Sherlock's left hip earlier today during her… _research_ of him.

Kingston was familiar too, but it wasn't as easy for her to place it. Was it a name? If so, why combine that with the year he was born? Joan looked about Sherlock's room hoping for inspiration. There were bottles of chemicals, a few key locks, papers piled together, and an atlas discarded by the dresser, but nothing that helped to point her in the right direction for the map of her memory. "Map… hmm." She thought furrowing her brow toward the atlas. Kingston**was** a name—the name of a town, specifically, the town where Sherlock was born.

She beamed at her own skills in deduction, quite proud of herself.

She really wanted to test her skills with the partial sleeve he had on his left shoulder, but that arm was currently tucked between her and the bed. So she returned her attention to the remaining two tattoos on his right arm.

A rat.

She grimaced at the solid black creature on his forearm. Unlike with his other tattoos, Joan did not feel the desire to trace her fingers over this one. She had dealt with enough rats in med school to last her a lifetime. And because of med school she knew that the organic chemistry of rats and their evolutionary success was very similar to that of humans. Rats were able to survive in a vast range of ecological environments and were, in some cases, heartier than humans when it came to diseases—like with the Bubonic Plague.

She also remembered that rat was the first sign in the Chinese Zodiac. There it symbolized fertility and wealth. Although Sherlock came from a family (or at least a father) that never seemed to be lacking in wealth, Joan was sure that this was not his reasoning for getting a rat tattoo. She was fairly certain that Sherlock's choice in a rat was more likely to be because of their obvious traits of superiority despite their negative social stigma, which she felt was a deep enough insight to move her attention to the next tattoo.

The flames on his wrist were quite vexing to Joan. Fire seemed like such an ordinary and cliché choice for a tattoo. It didn't seem to fit in with his other choices, not even with the rat. She spent a few moments trying to rationalize this tattoo choice, and when she couldn't she sighed quietly.

Instead of furthering her annoyance for the flames Joan turned over as carefully as she could to face Sherlock. She didn't want to wake him, but she had run out of tattoos to examine from that position.

The muscles in his arms flexed slightly as she settled in between them resting on her right elbow so as not to lay directly on her own tattoo in the process.

She took a few moments to watch Sherlock while he slept. It was a rare treat for Joan to see his face at rest—not pulled tight as he kept his thoughts concealed. Instead the lines near his mouth and the creases on his forehead were relaxed as he slumbered. She could see that the dark circles that always appeared under his eyes when he was close to finishing a case were starting to get a tiny bit lighter. She felt her hand reach out to trace the features of his face, but stopped herself. That would surely wake him.

From her position now she could only partially see the tattoo on his right shoulder blade. It was a thin, colorless ribbon that cascaded downward with writing on each tier, but she couldn't see what the writing said.

She ran her fingers over his shoulder over and over gently trying to coax his body to angle forward to improve her view of the tattoo.

"I'm normally quite able to keep my focus, but what you're doing now is quite… distracting." She heard Sherlock murmur. She looked up at his face, his eyes were still closed, and she would have believed that he was still asleep except for the small smile that tugged at his lips.

"What is it that you're doing?" He asked sneaking a glance at her before closing his eyes again.

"I'm deducing." She replied simply. No longer afraid of waking him, she pulled Sherlock's body so that he lay on his stomach.

"And what is the object of your deduction?" He mumbled turning his head to free it from the pillow. Joan then straddled his lower back to get a better view of his unexplored tattoos.

She leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "you are. This is the case of Sherlock Holmes." Then she turned on his bedside lamp. Twilight was fading into darkness and she still had a few tattoos to ponder over.

"And what have you discovered so far?"

His arms stretched back along his body and he held onto her legs where they connected with him. He wanted to touch her, to review the new discoveries he had made that afternoon, but it was her turn, so he contented himself by rubbing small circles on her legs near her knees while her hands glided across his arms, shoulders, back leaving feather light pulses of heat on his skin.

"On your left arm it says 'stamina' which at first I wanted to attribute to my gratitude for your stamina in a purely _physical_ manner." She said tracing her fingers along the tattoo in question. He smirked at her response and hummed in appreciation. "But then I realized it was more like perseverance." She continued in a softer voice, "in overcoming your addiction." His hands squeezed her legs briefly which Joan took to be a sign that she was right, so she moved on to the next tattoo.

"Your right arm took me a little longer."

"Yes, I could feel as much." He replied and Joan's eyes widened.

"I thought you were asleep!" She said incredulously and she could feel him chuckle underneath her.

"I thought you might stop if you knew that I was awake."

She frowned at the fact that she was clueless to when he had actually woken up, but continued anyway.

"Kingston 1972 is the place and year of your birth." She felt another squeeze on her legs.

"Kingston Upon Thames, actually, but that was a bit too long for where I wanted it." Sherlock replied glancing over his shoulder at Joan. She was doing pretty well so far, but she had started with the more obvious ones.

"The rat was tricky. I _think _you chose it for both for the role it plays in the advancement of science and because it is an intelligent creature that society never fails to misjudge." Joan waited for him to squeeze her legs in approval, but he didn't.

"Am I wrong?" She queried and he shrugged turning a little more to better look at her.

"While I appreciate your interpretation that's not exactly why I got it."

"Then why did you get it?"

"To be completely honest, I was high when I acquired that tattoo." He said turning his gaze away from her. "Or low, rather as it was in my low point of addiction. I could probably rattle off five or six different reasons why a rat is symbolically relevant, but at the time I just wanted to feel something—anything—to distract me."

Joan rubbed his shoulders in an attempt to comfort him.

"What about the flames, Watson? What did you deduce from that?" He asked pushing forward, doing his best to keep the past where it belonged. He didn't want to bring down Joan's mood she had been doing quite well.

"Nothing." She said, smiling when he turned to look at her again.

"Nothing?" He repeated and she nodded her head.

"They didn't fit. I couldn't think of anything that wasn't clichéd." His eyes twinkled, pleased that he was still able to conceal some of himself—even when distracted by amorous thoughts.

"What else, Watson? What else have my tattoos told you about me?" He enjoyed hearing her responses partly because they showed what progress Joan had made in deduction but mostly because her responses told Sherlock what _she_ thought of him. They were her interpretations of why he did something and it had been quite gratifying for him to hear her analysis.

"Give me a moment. I'm still deducing." She replied adjusting again so that she could look at the tattoos on his back.

On his left shoulder blade was a number: 26.2 and as an avid runner Joan knew what it represented. It was the distance travelled during a marathon. What she didn't know was why those numbers were on Sherlock. In the six months they had lived together she had not seen him run or even jog once unless it was in the spirit of the moment while investigating—never recreational. Joan, on the other hand, went for a run every day. Was it possible that they somehow had this in common?

She mused on that thought for a moment before turning her attention to his right shoulder blade. This was the ribbon tattoo that she had first seen before Sherlock woke up. In each tier was a word: "sister, mother, father, brother." Her fingers were lightly tracing over the lines and curves of his ink-stained skin while she pondered its meaning.

She knew that Sherlock had a brother, and he obviously had a father but she had never heard mention of a sister or of his mother. Joan knew that Sherlock wasn't particularly sentimental about his family, recalling that he once told her he would trade his father for a tic-tac. But then what did it symbolize?

"Have you figured them out?" Sherlock asked turning over so that Joan was now straddling his hips instead of his lower back. "I fancy this view **much** more." He thought with a devious smirk as his eyes took in all of the curves and planes of her form again. It also afforded him the opportunity to read her expressions as she thought or spoke.

"You were a runner, marathons?" She asked unsure and he placed his hands on her hips giving them a squeeze.

"But you don't run now." A light squeeze.

"Did you run often?" She asked more curious about his past than about the reason he got the tattoo.

Another squeeze on her hips as he said, "My best time was just under 3 hours and 2 minutes." He suppressed a grin as Joan's eyes widened in surprise. The average male completed a marathon in roughly 4 and ½ hours.

"That's impressive."

"I know." He replied smirking and Joan swatted his abdomen for being cheeky.

"Why did you stop running?" She asked and he merely pointed to the crook of his elbow where Joan had seen the small scars.

"Oh. You're welcome to come running with me, as long as you don't slow me down." She said with a playful smile and Sherlock smiled slightly, thinking that he just might take her up on that offer.

"Alright what about the other tattoo?" This was Joan's true test. Sherlock knew that his past and his private life were still very much private. If Joan was able to figure out this tattoo he would be in trouble—he would have grossly underestimated her skills of deduction and observation.

"I don't think you have a sister, but I don't know what to make of it." She said going over the details of the tattoo in her mind.

"I guess I'll need to spend more time with you working on your deduction skills." Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"So you're not going to tell me what it means?"

He gave a slight shake of his head, "what kind of mentor would I be if I gave you the answers instead of letting you find them on your own?"

"What about the tattoo on your shoulder?" She asked as her fingers danced across his stomach.

"Actually, before I forget..." He said partially leaning over the side of his bed and collecting his trousers. Joan could see that he was looking for something and after a moment he produced a small tube and discarded his trousers back to the floor.

"Turn please." He instructed squeezing a bit of cream onto his finger. Joan obliged turning her torso so that her tattoo was more accessible to him. He then carefully spread the cream across her shoulder blade and tossed the tube toward his bedside table.

In the silence that followed Joan could hear Sherlock's stomach grumble from hunger.

She chuckled running her hands down his chest, "We kinda skipped lunch… and dinner."

"Dinner can wait." He said leaning forward to kiss Joan a bit forcefully on the mouth before pulling her down to the bed with him. It was his turn again.

She gasped and then reached over to turn off the bedside lamp.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Lesson in Trust – Part 3**

It had been eight days since Sherlock had manipulated Joan into her peony blossom tattoo—eight days since they had blurred the lines between professional and romantic associates.

Joan sat at the table sipping on her morning smoothie perusing a book about symbolism. She was determined to uncover the meanings of **all** of Sherlock's tattoos even if it meant reading every book and article in the brownstone for inspiration. After that first day he had been quite careful about giving away any details that might aid her in her research of him, and although she really was enjoying the game, the investigation of Sherlock Holmes, she was also very annoyed at how well he was able to conceal himself.

She tried all manner of ways to distract him, to make him let his guard down even just a tiny bit, but it appeared that unlike most people, even sex was not able to jumble Sherlock's mind enough into giving away his secrets.

Joan reached over her shoulder to scratch but stopped herself just in time. Her tattoo had been peeling for days. It was one of the most annoying and unyielding sensations she had experienced in a long while. More than once she had seen Captain Gregson give her a questioning look as she fidgeted trying to ignore the itchy sensations. She offered no excuse and Gregson never formally asked for one.

In a strange way, Joan found great pleasure in her acquaintances' ignorance of her new body art. It was like having a secret: one that made her think of strength, of discovery, and of Sherlock.

Things had been quite comfortable between Sherlock and Joan, and in many aspects it was as if nothing had changed. They still worked as consulting detectives together, Joan still went for daily runs, and Sherlock still did things that infuriated Joan (like surprise self-defense training sessions), but the main difference seemed to be that when things got particularly tense between them they both woke up in Sherlock's bed or on the couch or on the rug in the study...

"Ah, I see you've turned to J.C. Cooper now." Sherlock said moving past the table to the kettle to pour himself a cup of tea.

Joan attempted to stay focused on her research.

"Well, very little is accomplished without constant vigilance." She muttered remembering when he told her that very same thing just after throwing a pillow at her head—another of his self-defense training exercises.

He smirked at her response and ran his fingers across her shoulder blade taking a moment to admire the blossom.

"It's very nearly finished peeling." Her skin shivered at his light touch. "And what have you learned from Mrs. Cooper?" He asked joining her at the table.

"I'm working on it." She replied closing the book when he tried to see what page she was reading. They had recently solved a kidnapping case and Joan was enjoying the lull in their schedule. She spent her extra time pondering over Sherlock's unsolved tattoos. She was going to take her time in piecing together the information now. She had already twice more attempted (and failed) to deduce the meaning of the banner on his right shoulder that read: "sister mother father brother" so she wanted to be fairly certain before telling him her ideas again. This, naturally, frustrated Sherlock; he wanted to know the sequence of her thoughts and track her progress in breaking down the clues from the information she had. Instead he was left to study her—as she was studying him—to try and deduce her progress. It was a bit of a process and Sherlock didn't like having to take the extra steps.

"What do you have planned for today?" She asked Sherlock letting her eyes slowly look him over. Apart from when it was a bit drafty, he had now found little reason to wear a shirt around the brownstone. Joan could see his toned chest and the top of his boxers peeking out over the edge of his wrinkled trousers.

"I prefer to see where the day takes me rather than planning it out, although I am going out to the apiary presently. Would you like to join me?"

. . .

It was pleasantly warm on the rooftop as Joan and Sherlock sat on the bench directly in front of the apiary. Usually when Sherlock went up there he spent an inordinate amount of time silently staring at the bees while they worked. Joan wondered what was going on in his mind as he stared at them captivated by their movements.

When they first sat down Joan was watching Sherlock while he watched the bees, but after a short while Sherlock began rattling off some of the facts he stored in his brain about bees and she couldn't help but turn her attention to the buzzing apiary.

"Out of the 20,000 plus species of bees, there are only seven species of honeybees. That of course then breaks down into the forty-four subspecies of the Apis genus to categorize the pollination variances and different geographic locations of each species."

He was watching the apiary as he spoke, occasionally glancing at Joan to see her reaction, and perhaps to make sure that she was still listening. Joan had always been mesmerized by Sherlock's extensive knowledge base. She knew that he was particularly fond of bees and assumed that he knew a great deal about them, but she felt herself awestruck by his words all the same. She watched the bees trying to see which ones were different from each other.

"The honey that is gathered for human consumption is typically taken from the nectar produced by Apis mellifera or Apis cerana. They are common in Europe and Asia respectively." He pointed out the two types of bees to Joan before pointing to another. "And this one is native to Turkey and Iran; you remember Gerald Lydon's gift: it is an Osmia avosetta." Joan nodded and said, "Yes, the bee in the box." Sherlock gave a nod of affirmation and looked back to the bees. "It is part of the family Megachilidae, not Apidae which is the honeybee family. This is a solitary bee. That added with it's variation in genus and family should have, by all accounts, made it unable to reproduce with the other bees here. And yet, nature is infinitely wily." Sherlock said giving Joan a small smile.

"So box bee got another bee pregnant?" Joan asked looking at Sherlock.

"Quite so, which means the offspring should be classified as an entirely new species. The first newborn of which, is about to crawl its way into the sunlight." Sherlock gestured to the magnifying glass strategically positioned in front of a part of the apiary and Joan smiled leaning forward to take a closer look.

"As the discoverer of the species, the task of naming the new creatures falls upon me. Allow me to introduce you to Euglassia Watsonia." Joan was staring intently at the bees since she had never seen a bee hatch and didn't see Sherlock move, but she could feel the sudden warmth of his hand as it held hers. She turned to face him with a slightly shocked smile, "you named a bee after me?"

He was still looking at the bees, but gave her hand a slight squeeze. Joan grinned remembering that it was his sign of affirmation. "You named a bee after me." She repeated proudly before she turned her attention back to the bees, back to _her_ bee.

The rooftop was like a different world. There were ambient city noises mixed with the buzzing of the bees but there were no other distractions. Sherlock and Joan sat up there for what felt like hours to Joan, but she was content to watch the bees and to watch Sherlock while he held her hand. She like him best when he was like this: pensive and calm. She could still feel a slight hum of energy exuding from him—especially where their hands connected—but he wasn't fidgeting like he usually did when he was searching for something in his mind, going through his knowledge to find an answer. Instead it was as if he had found a brief moment of peace.

. . .

Joan steadied the pizza box on the palm of her left hand while she unlocked the front door. She had managed to pull herself away from the apiary and from Sherlock in order to get them lunch from a pizza place a few blocks away.

"Sherlock?" She called, unsure if he was still sitting on the rooftop blissfully watching the bees at work.

"Living room."

She followed his voice and directions and found him perched on the couch intently reading something. She set the pizza box on the coffee table and caught the title of the book as Sherlock shifted to get a slice from the box. _An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Traditional Symbols_ by J.C. Cooper, the book that Joan had at breakfast.

Joan shrugged out of her cardigan and joined Sherlock on the couch, grabbing a slice of her own.

He was still perusing the book after Joan finished her second slice so she decided to entertain herself by revisiting the sleeve of tattoos on Sherlock's left shoulder. She turned to face him completely, resting her back against the arm of the couch and crossing her legs on the cushion between herself and Sherlock. She reached out tentatively at first not wanting to startle Sherlock if he had been too engrossed in his reading to realize her intentions. His body instinctively tensed at her touch and then relaxed.

She lazily let her fingers trace over the images she had already deciphered: the large sand hourglass symbolizing the finite amount of time one is given while providing the reminder that once time has passed it cannot be retrieved again.

Next Joan's fingers swirled around as they followed the design of a Chinese dragon. She felt that, much like a dragon, Sherlock was bold, strong, valiant, had thick skin, and was sometimes quite bothersome—although Sherlock never actually confirmed that Joan was correct in her deductions he did nod his head as she explained that particular image, appreciative of her insights.

She ran her fingers over the rose that took up the bottom corner of the woven images. She still wasn't sure about this one. The other images were strong, masculine, and in way harsh when compared to the rose. In fact, when she was perusing through J.C. Cooper's book she had been hoping for some inspiration for this image as well as for the banner of familial names that decorated Sherlock's right shoulder blade.

Joan had all kinds of information about roses in her head, but most of it dealt with poetry and romance. Neither of those aspects seemed to fit in with the combination of images that covered Sherlock's left shoulder and bicep.

"Although the insights into historical and religious symbolism are remarkable, I'm not sure how you expect this book to help you deduce the meanings of _my_ tattoos, Watson." Sherlock said shutting the book and tossing it on top of the pizza box.

"Reading a book on symbols isn't meant to tell me what your tattoos mean so much as to help trigger something in my mind so that _I_ can decipher its meaning using what I know of you."

"For example…" He prodded; his intention in asking was to get information on Joan's newest interpretations.

"Well… like banners. Cooper says that banners often relate to conquest or the act of conquering something—typically land, which is then marked with a banner or flag. So I use that information to help work through possibilities for the banner on your right shoulder blade."

"So you think I have made a conquest of a sister, mother, father, and brother?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

"No. I use the information to give me ideas. One _possibility_ is that you may have conquered the necessity of family or familial bonds and keep them behind you. However, since I don't think that is even remotely close to the reason why you have that tattoo, I can at least cross it off of the list of possibilities."

"That's a thorough process. Although it will probably take you near six months to come to a reasonable deduction for the tattoo if you are going to go through **every** possibility however slim the connection to me and my life may be."

She frowned at him hoping that it wouldn't take her that long. "You could speed things up if you told me what it meant—or gave me some kind of hint…" She said playfully.

"I much prefer to hear what you think from an unbiased perspective."

She pushed the banner from her mind and returned back to the tattoo that was directly in front of her: the shoulder sleeve with the rose. She knew that several states held the rose as the state flower, including New York. But aside from his living in New York, Sherlock had shown no real affinity for the state. "No," Joan reasoned with herself. "Being the state flower for **any **state would be irrelevant in this case."

Joan pinched the bridge of her nose as her mind flooded with all of the knowledge, images, and references it had to roses. She flicked through Shakespearean quotes, florist color meanings, which of her former lovers had given her roses, the different smells roses had, the thorns, the leaves, the pollen, the bees… She wondered how Sherlock was able to filter through his brain when he was working a case, because she was getting frustrated just trying to assign meaning to a tattoo.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked watching her regress into her mind while staring at his arm.

"Just … thinking." She said giving her head a slight shake.

"About?"

"How are you able to file away so much information in your head?"

"Ah, _that_ is easy enough to explain. Memory works in a fairly predictable pattern: things move from short-term to long-term memory based on the associations we assign these new things. For example, if you happen to read about something that you find dull you will make very few connections to the new material because you are disinterested or perhaps because you know very little about it. However, if you read about something you find interesting you make more connections from the new material to your existing knowledge and move that material to long-term memory more quickly. So it isn't really a matter of being able to arbitrarily memorize facts or scenarios, but rather it is a matter of being interested in the fact and assigning it to other memories or links already established in your mind."

Joan blinked at him nearly overwhelmed by his explanation.

"So, you just find everything interesting."

"I'm not necessarily interested. I'm just able to make a connection between the new information and something I already know."

Joan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the arm of the couch. Sherlock had a way of making things sound so simple and obvious even when they weren't.

"You do it too, Watson. With the Gerald Lydon case you were able to process information into your long-term memory about genetic coding and the CAA disorder because of your previous knowledge as a doctor."

Joan thought over what Sherlock had said and ultimately agreed with him. She hadn't noticed it before, but she followed the exact same process Sherlock did—she just had a much smaller network of existing information.

"What else have you deduced about me that I haven't figured out for myself yet?"

"That's a bit of a jumbled request. Do you want me to tell you something I have deduced about you that you don't know that I have deduced, or something that I have deduced about you that you have not yet deduced about your own character?"

"What?"

"Exactly my point. You have to be precise in your demands."

She groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose again. "Just tell me something about myself that I don't seem to already know."

He studied her face for a while enjoying her expression of anticipation. He could definitely sympathize with her desire—wanting to know what someone you care about thinks of you. Joan had been kind of enough to show Sherlock this through her deductions of his tattoos, and though he wanted to think of something that would be profound his mind kept jumping back to key physical markers he had filed away about her during their first interactions.

"You have been physically attracted to me since our first meeting when you barged into this brownstone as my sober companion."

"How could you possibly know _that_?" Joan scoffed pushing herself forward off the arm of the couch looking at him disbelievingly.

"It's quite easy to deduce physical attraction. There are clear indicators that are hard to fake—emotional attraction, however, is much more complex involving any variation of mental and physical tells which makes it more difficult to deduce."

"So what were my indicators to make you so sure that I was physically attracted to you?" Joan challenged crossing her arms over her chest.

"There's no need to be defensive about it, Watson. I'm sure a number of people would react similarly when placed into a situation comparable to the one you faced."

She leaned back against the arm of the couch again her arms still crossed over her chest, her eyes slightly narrowed. Sherlock turned toward her on the couch, bending his left leg up on the cushion between them and letting his right leg dangle over the side. Sensing her indignation, he filtered through the details in his mind to get straight to the point.

"When I first spoke to you I asked you if you believed in love at first sight and then continued talking along the same train of thought while I stood mere inches in front of you. By standing so close I was able to observe that your pupils dilated, your nostrils flared, your pulse accelerated, and when we shook hands your palms were sweaty. All of these are key physical indicators of attraction."

Joan opened her mouth but then closed it when she could think of nothing to say. She remembered that incident well. Sherlock was watching several televisions all on different channels. He paused them when she entered, but still hadn't focused on her. She ran through her speech about being his sober companion and then he spoke, slowly moving closer to her talking of love and feeling an instantaneous connection. And then he pressed play and the exact same words were said through the television showing a day-time soap opera.

Sherlock put his hand on Joan's knee and continued with his explanation.

"By watching the signs one can see that this," he gestured between them, "had been building up since the first day of our acquaintance. Then when you add in the close living quarters, our constant proximity to one another, and the stress and tension caused by the work that we do, rational thought leads me to believe that we would have wound up here eventually."

Joan was quiet for a few moments, silently working through all of what Sherlock had just said.

"So when you manipulated the situation for my tattoo and wrote in the book… was that all in anticipation that I would sleep with you?"

"Of course not! Ordinarily I find sex repugnant. It's messy and distracting, and I wouldn't have gone through such circuitous methods if the exercise had just been about having sex. I did, however, anticipate that when you found my note we might share some sort of deeper camaraderie, but I never anticipated that it would lead to us connecting in such a physical way."

"But then why… why all the games and secret notes in books you're giving me to read and—"

"I enjoy your company, your insights, your reactions. And, honestly, I don't know what I would do without you. And I don't mean 'you' my sober companion, or my associate detective, but _you_—Joan Watson."

Joan's arms loosened and she shifted so that she was leaning against Sherlock.

"So, any more deductions about my remaining tattoos?" Sherlock asked once Joan was comfortable.

"You couldn't let me enjoy that for just a moment, could you?" She asked annoyed.

"You were the one who said you were going to figure them _all_ out. I'm just curious as to your progress."

"I **will** figure them _all_ out… eventually."

"You can just tell me that you have no new theories, I won't be disappointed." Sherlock stated patting her arm.

"I'd like to—if you approve—take my time. I'm not in any rush here." She replied trying her best to imitate an English accent.

"And what would you like to do in the mean time?" He asked tapping his fingers on the couch cushion.

Joan tugged on his trousers.

"I'm sure we'll think of something." She said with a smirk.

* * *

**AN: **I know I said that this story was finished after the first chapter… and the second chapter… so at the risk of being wrong a third time, it is my intention to leave the story here. I know that the tattoo deductions haven't been completely resolved, but I didn't want to force the story or the interpretations. So until this particular Joanlock muse strikes me again, this is all she wrote!

**FYI**, Honeybee information was mostly taken from: wiki/Honey_bee and I couldn't really tell what all was in the tattoo sleeve Jonny Lee Miller has, so I took some liberties with what I thought the images were and made some omissions.


End file.
